to
push Mulder aside with the back of his hand.

"Hands off, Glipper!" cried the school-boys, raising their clenched hands
threateningly.

"Then let me alone," replied Wibisma, "I want no quarrel, least of all
with you."

"Why not with us?" asked Adrian Van der Werff, irritated by the
supercilious, arrogant tone of the last words.

The youth shrugged his shoulders, but Adrian cried: "Because you like
your Spanish costume better than our doublets of Leyden cloth."

Here he paused, for Jan Mulder stole behind Wibisma, struck his hat down
on his head with a book, and while Nicolas Van Wibisma was trying to free
his eyes from the covering that shaded them, exclaimed:

"There, Sir Grandee, now the little hat sits firm! You can keep it on,
even before the king."

The negro could not go to his master's assistance, for his arms were
filled with parcels, but the young noble did not call him, knowing how
cowardly his black servant was, and feeling strong enough to help
himself.

A costly clasp, which he had just received as a gift on his seventeenth
birthday, confined the plume in his hat; but without a thought he flung
it aside, stretched out his arms as if for a wrestling-match, and with
florid cheeks, asked in a loud, resolute tone: "Who did that?"

Jan Mulder had hastily retreated among his companions, and instead of
coming forward and giving his name, called:

"Look for the hat-fuller, Glipper! We'll play blindman's buff."

The youth, frantic with rage, repeated his question. When, instead of any
other answer, the boys entered into Jan Mulder's jest, shouting gaily:
"Yes, play blind-man's buff! Look for the hat-fuller. Come, little
Glipper, begin." Nicolas could contain himself no longer, but shouted
furiously to the laughing throng:

"Cowardly rabble!"

Scarcely had the words been uttered, when Paul Van Swieten raised his
grammar, bound in hog-skin, and hurled it at Wibisma's breast.

Other books followed, amid loud outcries, striking him on the legs and
shoulders. Bewildered, he shielded his face with his hands and retreated
to the church-yard wall, where he stood still and prepared to rush upon
his foes.

The stiff, fashionable high Spanish ruff no longer confined his handsome
head with its floating golden locks. Freely and boldly he looked his
enemies in the face, stretched the young limbs hardened by many a
knightly exercise, and with a true Netherland oath sprang upon Adrian Van
der Werff, who stood